“The Male Eunuch”, 2018. Text reads:
Something that bears repeating, and then is nothing, when divorced from its humanity, likely hands. The way images for book-covers used to be an art in them selves, formulas and narratives not applied or set... and who could know what was this great homogenising fear? Was there a death in the finite nature of every specific act? Even to be applied against reproduction, be the best – not at: but for- sex... to be the best – the least specific- the most attractive to the widest spectrum [the most narrow visualisation of power]. But what was it to love without idiosyncrasy? I'm in the aftermath of another failure -I have not failed to love specifically– it was hard to imagine something so important being reciprocated. It was hard to imagine that I would find someone to at least concede to a psychospiritual politic of an equality of mass-isolation.